


The Boss

by Mottlemoth



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anthea Ships it with Force if Necessary, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Mycroft & Anthea Friendship, Mycroft Holmes Attempts To Manage His Own Emotions, Oblivious Boys So In Love, Rampant Feelings, Sally Donovan & Greg Lestrade Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-12
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2019-03-03 21:44:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13350129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mottlemoth/pseuds/Mottlemoth
Summary: Greg is acting weird, and Sally has started to worry. Something's clearly preying on his mind. They don't usually share personal stuff at work—but this time, it seems to be important. It looks like Sally's going to have to intervene.Meanwhile, at a summit six thousand miles away, Anthea watches her employer lapsing further and further into distraction. Selected for Mr Holmes out of thousands, she is his closest confidante—and she's not prepared to let him suffer needlessly. There's only one thing the poor man needs now. Getting him to acknowledge it won't be easy.





	1. Sergeant

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a tale of two parts. Chapter one is Sally's POV and was written first. The next three chapters, belonging to Anthea, form a longer companion story that takes the relationship right back to its beginnings. I very much hope you enjoy both. <3

The boss had something on his mind.

At first, Sally assumed it was the usual Monday morning fog. She kept her DI topped up with coffee, and left him to dig his way free from the mountain of emails every weekend brought in. By mid-afternoon, with the e-mails sorted, Greg’s mood would have usually brightened - but he seemed no better today. He was distracted. Sad. He took his smoke breaks alone, and returned no more settled than when he'd gone.

Sally kept a close-eye through the glass walls of his office - bringing him files he requested, updates he was waiting on, coffee every hour or so. None of it seemed to rouse a smile.

Greg Lestrade was a good boss - misguided, maybe, when it came to certain vigilante investigators - but he was always fair, and always patient, and his commitment to the job was beyond question. He was the sort of boss who very easily became a friend; the boss you'd still have on the Christmas card list, years and years from now, when you were both long gone from the job. Greg was funny, and he was calm, and he was cheerful.

At least... he _usually_ was.

Sally was surprised, come six o'clock, to find him working his way through the expense reports. They were only due in next week. Usually, he'd leave them until Friday.

"You alright?" she tried, with a smile, standing in the door of his office in her coat. "You're eager with those this week."

He huffed. "Might as well," he said. "Get them out the way... g'night, Donovan. See you tomorrow."

There didn't seem anything Sally could say back to that - except, "Night, boss..."

As she left, she glanced back.

Greg was quietly checking his phone. He gazed at the home-screen, dull, then locked it again with a swipe of his thumb.

 

* * *

 

Tuesday, and Sally found herself watching the boss for symptoms - a sniffle, a sneeze, a cough - but there were none. He was just quiet, so far as she could tell - quiet and sad.

They were getting work done - tons of it. She'd come in to find the expense reports all signed and done, and wondered how late he'd stayed to do it - and why.

But she didn't like to ask.

Coffee didn't seem to be changing things. She kept it up all the same, just in case it was helping under the surface.

"You okay?" she asked at last, not long before five. "You seem... tired."

"Not sleeping great," he admitted. "This time of year. Light's weird in a morning. Always knocks me out of sync."

Sally had worked for Greg for three years now. She'd never noticed this before.

"You heading home soon?" she asked.

"I might stay a bit," he replied, taking a forensics report from his in-tray and wearily flipping it open. "Drowning in it this week..."

They weren't - no more than usual.

"Alright," Sally said, warily. "Can I - help with anything? Take some stuff off your hands?"

"No, it'll be fine... thanks for offering though." He paused, checking his phone. Sally caught a glimpse of his lockscreen as it lit up - no notifications, no messages.

Greg returned to his forensics report.

"G'night, Donovan. See you tomorrow."

 

* * *

 

Wednesday was much the same.

Nobody else had really noticed yet. Work was getting done, the wheels of Scotland Yard were still turning, and only Sally could see what was missing - the smiles, the jokes, the camaraderie. Everyone else just assumed DI Lestrade was having a paperwork week.

But something was majorly wrong - and it was only getting worse by the day.

Greg only left his office to smoke now, and smoked for some time, down in the car park where he wouldn't be disturbed.

Through the walls of his office, Sally saw him check his phone about a hundred times a day. Every single time, he placed it gently and miserably back in its drawer. He never seemed to reply to anything. He just checked it, and grew quieter, and returned to his work.

Greg left on time on Wednesday - there was no work left to do. His in-tray was empty. He seemed unsettled and unhappy to realise it, and as they left the building together at five, Sally almost brought herself to ask.

But she didn't want to seem intrusive.

The boss never talked about home that much.

She knew about the divorce a few years ago - everybody knew. But all that she knew had come from other people and rumour. Greg had never said a word about it. He'd simply arrived without his wedding ring one Monday, and gotten on with the job. The mark had slowly faded on his finger. He'd been as cheerful and easy and patient as ever, and the weeks had gone by, and life had carried on, and the job had gotten done. If he was hurting, he hadn't shown it.

He was showing it now.

Sally delayed by the side of her car, pretending to have lost her keys in her bag so she could watch him leave. He got into his car with his usual, "G'night, Donovan... see you tomorrow," - then, upon slamming the door, he immediately checked his phone. Even at a distance, Sally could see the empty lockscreen.

She watched him sit for a while in silence, reading back through old messages - scrolling vaguely with his thumb - his shoulders slumped, his face fallen.

At last, he threw the phone into his glovebox. He tossed it in, as if he simply didn't care. He switched the stereo on, grey-faced - and at the opening bars of an Alicia Keys' track that Sally half-recognised from years ago, something broke in Greg's face.

He dropped his head into his hands.

As Sally realised he was crying, the spike of distress was too much to bear.

She couldn't watch a second longer. She took her keys from where they'd been all along, got in her car and drove away, her heart thumping, wishing like crazy she hadn't seen that. She did her best to think about other things - the traffic, the sport, what she had in the freezer for dinner - and pretended she hadn’t seen what she’d seen.

She was halfway home before she finally put a name to the track that had upset him so much.

It was _'If I Ain't Got You'._

 

* * *

 

On Thursday, people started to notice. Greg had arrived stubbled and dishevelled that morning, in the same shirt he'd been wearing yesterday. He threw himself at once into a full re-organising of his office files. He claimed he'd been putting it off for months.

"DI alright?" people asked, one-by-one, as they discreetly dropped by Sally's desk.

"He's fine," Sally said each time, and no more - in a tone that informed them their inquiry was now complete.

She found herself scanning through recent incident reports, trying to find him something for him to get his teeth into. Whatever was upsetting Greg, he needed distraction. He needed to work through it. Coffee wasn't fixing this.

But there was nothing.

It was a quiet week for London's criminals, and the boss was falling apart.

Sally kept up the coffee. Most of them went cold, undrunk. By one PM, Greg had finished his filing and immediately gone out to smoke, returning to his pristine office after fifteen minutes with a bitterly unhappy expression. He checked his e-mails, and checked his phone. He put his head quietly into his hands.

Sally couldn't stand it any longer.

She picked up her bag.

As the door of his office jerked open, Greg looked up from his hands in alarm.

"Alright?" he said, swiftly attempting to mask his expression.

"C'mon," said Sally. "Let's go."

Greg's forehead crumpled. "Go where?"

"Out," she said. "Get your coat."

It was testament to the boss's tiredness that he did not protest. He didn't even ask any more questions. He just got his coat from the stand in the corner, pale and quiet, and followed Sally meekly from the room.

They were in the queue for Caffe Nero before he spoke.

"What's this about?"

Sally said nothing, accepting two grande macchiatos from the server with a smile. "Thanks."

She took him off to the quietest corner, sat him down on the most comfortable sofa, and put the coffee into his hands.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

His gaze became immediately guarded.

"Nothing," he said. "Just - not been sleeping great... that's all. I told you. Be fine in a few days."

"Who's not texting you back?" Sally asked.

Greg’s expression dropped.

"I'm a detective too," she reminded him, as the colour ran from his face. "And I've learned from the best, so… just tell me. Tell me what's wrong. It's clearly killing you and you can't go on like this."

"M'fine, Sal. It's just... personal crap." Greg lifted his coffee, muttering into the mug. "Don't worry about it."

"What kind of personal crap?"

"Personal personal crap."

"If you think we're leaving before you've told me," Sally said, "you're wrong. This is tearing you apart. So just... _talk,_ will you? I can't see you like this anymore. It's not alright."

For a long time Greg said nothing, holding the mug in both hands and looking away across the café. She watched conflicting instincts cross his tired face - professionalism and privacy; loneliness; a desperate need to share.

"Just - haven't heard from someone," he muttered, at last. "That's all. Expected to. Knocked me off track a bit."

"Who?" Sally asked.

"Just a - mate." Greg was silent for a while longer. "Away for work. Said he'd keep in touch, but... I dunno. Got me thinking."

"Thinking about what?" Sally said. She reached quietly for her own mug of coffee.

The silences were unbearable, she thought. So much was going unsaid. She could see every word of it, wracking him apart.

"Just… what I'm doing," he said at last, stiff. "Why I'm - … I don't know. If I'm - …" He shifted, exhaling. "Doesn't matter."

Sally steeled herself.

"When you say a 'mate'..." she said.

Greg did not meet her eyes. He took a long, long drink of coffee. Sally realised he was letting the silence answer for him.

"How long've you been seeing him?" she asked.

Again, he said nothing. Sally decided to push.

"About three months ago," she said, with care, "you… got picked up outside by a car one night. Guy in a suit. Posh. He looked - glad to see you."

Greg's eyes flickered into hers, and locked in place.

"Nobody knows about that," he near-growled.

Sally held his gaze, cool. "Not a soul," she said.

The silence returned. She sipped at her coffee, thinking her way towards her next move. It felt like they should be doing this over a plastic grey table with a solicitor present and the tape recorder running.

"So... seeing him at least three months," she said, summarising the facts of the case so far. "And he's gone off for work - and he's not texting. And he said he would."

There was no reply. Sally took it as a yes.

"Where's he gone for work?" she asked.

It was an irrelevant question, but it would get Greg accustomed to answering.

"Asia," he mumbled.

"Right… so… there's a time difference."

"S'only nine hours," he muttered. "He should still be awake when - …" He realised he was opening up and shut down at once, drinking deeply from his coffee. "This doesn't matter, Sal. It's not a work issue."

"Has he texted at all?" she asked, ignoring his protest.

Greg's brow darkened. "A bit," he said. "Just… short things." He hesitated, looking down into his mug. Distress flickered across his exhausted expression. "Normally texts quite a bit. That's all. Normally, he - …"

His voice trailed out. He swallowed a little.

"Normally, he's there."

Sally felt her heart quieten. "And now he's not."

Greg hesitated. "No." He ran his thumb along the side of the mug. "Not handling it well. I miss - …" He shook his head a little, stiffening. "Why the hell are we talking about this? C'mon. Let's get back to work."

"Oi," she said.

He went still. She put a hand on his arm.

"Go on," she said. "You miss…?"

"Sal, this is - … I'm - … you're not my bloody therapist."

"I am, for now. Just tell me what you miss."

He looked down into his coffee again, lost.

"Telling him about my day," he said, at last. "Or - hearing about his. I dunno. I'm - … maybe realising. Started thinking. Think I've been too keen... treating it like more than it was."

"More than it was?" she said.

"Spent the first few days just… embarrassing myself," he muttered. "Messaging him constantly. Telling him whatever was going on. Just - … Christ. Photos and jokes and little comments." His face shifted. "Telling him I missed him. Sending him goodnight at two o' clock in the afternoon. Things like that. Then I realised I was watching myself send all this crap... long, long walls of it… chattering away at him like a parrot, just… sending it into silence, and - … I mean - he's _busy…_ he can't - …"

He fell quiet, staring down at his hands for a moment. Sally watched his throat muscles work.

"He's busy," he said at last, his voice cracking. "He's got stuff going on. Bigger stuff than me. I guess I - had to realise it at some point."

He hesitated.

"Just hurts," he said. "That's all."

He lifted his coffee, his hand shaking a little.

"Reminds me of Louise," he mumbled. "Always giving back less than - …" He drank, deeply. "S'always like that though. Just the way it is. One person's always more into it than the other. Just - … Christ. Just wish it wasn't _me_ everytime."

Sally couldn't speak for a second. Her throat was too full. She swallowed it, told herself he needed calm right now, and said,

"If he's busy though… maybe he's _just busy,_  Greg..."

Greg shivered slightly, drinking. "Or maybe I'm irritating him to hell."

"Have you - spoken to him about it? I mean... has he told you to text him less?"

"No." Greg inhaled, slowly. "No, he's - … I don't know. He asks how I am. But there's only so many times you can tell someone you miss them before you start sounding like a broken record. And he's _busy,_ and he's… doing important stuff... y'know?"

He threw back the last of his coffee.

"And I'm just banging on," he muttered. "Telling him crap that doesn't matter. Babbling away. I miss him to pieces, but he's just - … I don't know. I'd sit and text him all night, if I could. But he tells me to go to sleep and rest."

"Greg…" Sally tried to make this sound as gentle as she could. "Maybe he's genuinely just got a lot going on. Maybe he _wants_ you to get some sleep."

Greg said nothing; he looked as if he couldn't.

"Have you _told_ him you're upset?" Sally asked.

He snorted, swallowing. "S'no way I'm doing that."

"Why?"

"Are you serious? I'm out of my head, worried I'm driving him mental already… being so clingy. Bombarding him with pointless crap about my day. I'm not gonna make it worse by starting an argument from thousands of miles away." He pushed his hands over his face, exhausted. "Crying at him to text me more. Like a bloody seventeen-year-old. Christ."

"So he's... got _no_ idea that you're sad..." she checked, raising an eyebrow.

"He's not got time for my rubbish."

Sally shrugged. "If I were him, I'd want to know."

"You're not him," Greg told her, flatly. "Believe me. He's… not like that."

"He seemed to like _you,"_ Sally said, coolly. "He was glad enough to pick you up after work that time… has he told you that he misses you?"

Greg shifted. "Sort of." He looked away. "He did quite a bit, first few days."

"Okay, well… listen... is there a chance that _he's_ now wondering why you've stopped sending him stuff? Because if you've just suddenly tailed off talking, then… maybe he's now somewhere in Asia, trying to figure out what he did wrong."

Greg did not respond. He was fiddling with the strap of his watch, thinking.

"You - sound like you're thinking of pulling away," she said, carefully. "Trying to be less keen. Before you do that… why not just tell him? Just have one try. Tell him you miss him, and you wish he'd text more. Tell him you're worried you're pissing him off. It's worth a go, isn't it? And if he's annoyed at you, then… well, it proves he was annoyed already in the first place. So what's new?"

This seemed to make sense. He'd lapsed into quiet again, lost in his thoughts. Sally glanced at the time on his watch.

"Nine hours, you said?"

He nodded, distantly.

"It's just coming up to two," she said. "Will he still be awake?"

Greg hesitated, glancing into her eyes. "He - might be."

"Okay. Listen, let's… do this now. While we're out, and while I'm here." She stood up, reaching for her purse. "I'm going to get more coffee. While I'm gone, just text him and say you want to talk. Then we'll deal with what he says."

Greg looked deeply unsure. "I don't want to mess this up," he said. "It's - ... he - he means - ...”

Sally didn't know if she wanted to hug him or shake him. "This is messing _you_ up," she said. "Besides, maybe he's been worrying for days… maybe you're both pulling back for no reason. Just… text him. Another macchiato, is it?"

She left before he could say another word, took her time ordering, and returned with fresh coffees a few minutes later.

"Did you text him?"

"Yes," Greg muttered, glancing at his mobile on the coffee table.

"What did you say?"

"Just… if he's not busy, maybe he could give me a - "

His mobile phone began to ring.

 

 _Incoming Call from:_ _  
_ _MYC_

 

Greg stiffened up at once.

"Answer it," said Sally.

His eyes flashed to her in fear.

"Take it outside," she said. "Go on. Tell him you miss him, will you? Tell him your sergeant says you've been a bloody nightmare."

His face creased. "I - think I'm about to be dumped, Sal."

"If he does," Sally said, "then the guy's a prick. Going away on work and not even caring that you miss him. It'd be for the best, Greg. Go on. Talk to him."

Greg picked up the mobile, his hand shaking. He answered it as he hurried off between the tables, turning pale.

"Hey," he said. His voice had changed - it was higher, more fearful, a voice that Sally had never heard him use before. "Are you busy? It's… Christ, it's nothing, really, I just… I - I hoped we could talk…"

He left the café.

Sally finished her second macchiato, then bought two very large chocolate chip cookies. She had a feeling Greg was going to need the sugar.

Sure enough, when he returned, he was white-pale and shaking. His expression as he crossed the café was unreadable. Sally waited as he dropped heavily onto the sofa, reached for his cold coffee and downed half of it in one.

"Well?" she said, discreetly crossing her fingers.

He took another moment to reply.

"He - thought I'd forgotten him. Thought I'd gotten bored. Texting him."

He put down his coffee cup with a shaky clunk.

"He thought _he_ was being clingy," he muttered, "always asking me how I am. Worried I was pulling away."

Sally let out a breath for the first time in minutes. "Did you tell him you miss him?"

"Yep."

"Did you tell him you've been an unbearable mess all week?"

Greg winced. "Yep."

"And what did he say?"

Greg looked down at the cookie she nudged across the table. "He's - cutting his trip short. S-Skipping the last three days. Says they can do the rest by e-mail. He's coming home late on Saturday instead, to - to be with me." He exhaled. "All Sunday."

Sally's grin spread the width of her face.

"Result," she said. "Won't be seeing you on Monday either, will we?"

"Jesus. No, Sal, I can't - there's - …"

"Expense reports?" she said, smirking. "Work to do? You've done it all, boss. Take Monday off, for God's sake... be with your guy."

Greg shivered again, breaking into a smile. He wolfed down a first piece of cookie. "I'll think about it," he said.

Sally made a mental reminder to pester him about it.

"He missed you too, didn't he?" she said.

"Erm... yeah. He did."

"A lot?"

Greg flushed. "Yeah."

Sally couldn’t fight a smile. "You just heard some reassuring words - didn’t you?"

Greg's grin lit up his face. "Yeah," he said, eyes shining. "Yeah, they were... good words. Really good."

Sally kicked him under the table.

"Idiot," she said, fondly. She raised her coffee to her mouth. "Life's too short not to say things."

 

* * *

 

On Monday morning, Sally arrived at her desk to find no sign of the boss - and a gift bag sitting on her desk.

The wine bottle inside was a vintage Bordeaux from before she was born. "Jesus..." she whispered, admiring it. There was a box of chocolates too - liqueurs, her favourite - and a gorgeous little trinket box lacquered with Japanese-style deer. It looked like it had come from a street market.

Even the bag probably cost a fortune.

Sally checked the label, where an elegant and unfamiliar hand had left her few but heartfelt words.

 

 _Sergeant Donovan -_  
_With my intense gratitude for your clarity of vision._  
_\- A friend._

 

Sally grinned, immediately scheduling herself a luxurious night-in - wine, chocolate, and the Grey's Anatomy box-set.

_Bliss._

She'd better get a good seat at the wedding.

 


	2. Assistant I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your kind comments and kudos for the previous story! I'm really glad you liked seeing Sally's take on things. I've always loved her canon relationship with Greg - girl's got his back. 
> 
> By popular demand, here follows another side of the same story. Enjoy. x

* * *

 

The process of matching a high-ranking official to a prospective assistant took at least half a year.

With the delicacy of the work being done, and at this level of political power, there existed no room for mistakes - for personality clashes; for problematic differences in opinion; for so much as a hint of sexual attraction. In time, the welfare of the nation would come to rest on the professional relationship between the two of them.

It had to be strong - and it had to endure.

Anthea often wished she could have screened her early boyfriends as thoroughly as she'd been screened for Mr Holmes.

It would certainly have made her twenties a much easier decade.

After six months of interviews, assessments and aptitude tests, the powers responsible had declared it an excellent match, with every hope of becoming a highly productive partnership. Anthea had been pleased to meet him - this force of logic and authority for whom she'd been selected as the ideal professional partner - and although their first introduction had followed the structure of a formal interview, it had taken place in Mr Holmes's office alone. The two of them had tea together: Earl Grey, a shared favourite (for it seemed that even _that_ had been taken into consideration during the process) - and Mr Holmes had included among his interview questions some small enquiries about her family and her background, the answers to which he clearly already knew. It was as close to casual conversation as they came.

Anthea was glad.

Genetics had made her broadly appealing to the heterosexual male eye; it left her weary. She disliked the very feeling of men trying to strike up conversation. So often, it was conducted with the most transparently casual questions - _where are you from? What's your name? Have you been in London long?_ \- and she despised it.

Mr Holmes - professional, disinterested in chat, and about as gay as the universe made them - was nothing but a relief.

He didn't particularly care about her background, but wanted to give some token indication that she would not be treated like a robot. It was quite enough for Anthea. The interview ended promptly, and cleanly, and she was informed five hours later that Mr Holmes had authorised the probationary period to begin.

The next morning, at six AM, a lifetime's ardent longing came to fruition.

Anthea's career had begun in earnest - the career she'd coveted since she was a little girl. She intended to excel in every way. It had been judged by an independent panel that, of the thousands of candidates in the system, it was _her_ potential that matched the needs of Mr Holmes the best.

She was going to become irreplaceable to him.

And she was prepared to work hard to do it.

The first year was conducted alongside Mr Holmes's current assistant, Clara, who was in the process of leaving the profession. The twelve months were to be spent training, acclimatising to the role, and growing accustomed to the life that her prospective employer led.

It also gave Mr Holmes time to decide if he wished to proceed with Anthea on a permanent basis.

If he did, they could reasonably be expected to spend in excess of a decade together. Most assistants followed their employer from role-to-role, bonded to the person instead of the position. Some had been their employer's loyal shadow for thirty years. The thought gave Anthea thrills.

As the months went by, and Mr Holmes's current assistant released more and more duties into Anthea's willing hands, everything seemed to be proceeding well.

There was no confirmation of it, of course. She took the lack of complaint from Mr Holmes to mean that her performance was satisfactory, and that was enough.

He was everything she'd expected to encounter in an employer that would suit her - thoughtful, demanding, and unmatched in his cognitive abilities; naturally inclined to routine, but of such dedication that the demands of the work came first; fond of tradition, quiet in his habits, and not prepared to explain something twice. Their work together swiftly came to carry the hallmark of a superbly-matched pair: the sum of their abilities and more.

Anthea felt herself blossoming into this new life. It gave her everything she craved. She was occupied from morning until night, and she was fast becoming indispensable. It was dizzying to be relied upon for matters of such consequence. She found herself anticipating what Mr Holmes needed long before he needed it. As she started to produce documents, solutions and cups of Earl Grey before he'd even requested them, his startled expression made her soul curl with quiet satisfaction.

As the probationary year progressed into its final quarter, Clara began to transfer personal duties as well as professional. These were kept until last - until the safest stages of the matching process. Mr Holmes's privacy was of paramount importance. Even after months of excellent progress, compatibility had to be ensured.

Initial training took place away from Mr Holmes, in a hotel bar in Mayfair, where the more intimate nature of the duties could be discussed without discomfort.

Clara took Anthea through the basics first - adding that Mr Holmes was both very private and self-sufficient, and often preferred to do things himself that other employers would pass to an assistant without a blink. He expected to be left alone until seven in the morning, and on an evening that had no other engagements in it, he was to be considered under his own management after eight. He made his own breakfast, and he usually dined at The Diogenes. He took management of his own wardrobe - though, Clara added, rather fondly, he might for important events seek a second opinion on a suit choice. It was vital to be honest. He was somewhat sensitive of his receding hairline, and didn't care for his genetic curls. They were tamed with a particular product that Clara had kept discreetly supplied in his bathroom for nearly eight years now. Anthea made a note of it.

Otherwise, Mr Holmes had used the same brand of toiletries since Clara had known him. They were all easily acquired. She gave Anthea a list of his usual medications, and took her through his commonly-encountered ailments - almost all of them caused by stress, adding that he was unlikely to seek help until they were severe, at which point there were various ways to manage the situation.

Clara admitted this was an area in which she'd struggled.

Mr Holmes did not cope well with his own vulnerability, she said - he closed off.

The matter of the younger brother was also a thorny one. Mr Holmes would, on the surface, seem quite sarcastic and wearied by the issue, and give the impression that Sherlock Holmes was a nuisance he would deport to Antarctica if only he could.

It was a front, Clara explained - in the bluntest of terms. Mr Holmes cared deeply for the man. His stress patterns were often linked to Sherlock's drug use, and it had previously come close to affecting Mycroft's work. He took intense interest in Sherlock's associates and acquaintances. Anyone who grew close was subjected to interview, and offered a considerable sum of money to spy on him - they were removed from Sherlock's life at once if they accepted the proposal.  

Sherlock Holmes was best considered a wildcard who would keep Anthea on her toes, Clara said. He was Mr Holmes's weakness.

But, so far as Clara had discovered, he was the sole weakness.

Otherwise, Mr Holmes had few personal relationships. He would deal with any matters relating to his parents himself, and it was best not to ask about them too much - though he would need Anthea's help in selecting Christmas presents. His mother liked handbags and perfume; his father liked whiskey and bowties.

Finally, Clara turned (over their third glass of white wine) to what she introduced as 'private matters' - as if they hadn't been discussing such things all evening. Anthea made a jump of logic, and deduced these might be more properly termed _intimate_ matters.

She braced herself, hoping that nine months of preparation weren't about to be dented by something difficult to hear.

But in the end, she needn't have worried.

Clara hadn't known Mr Holmes to have a relationship. Occasionally, an old acquaintance would pass through London - someone he'd known as a younger man - and Mr Holmes would be out of contact for the evening, save in the case of national emergency. He would package these occasions as dinner with an old friend. He was not to be questioned any further on the matter. He would text the name of a hotel the next morning, and Anthea was to send a clean suit and a car to collect him without comment.

She'd find him very quiet all that day - and often unhappy.

It was best just to occupy him with work.

From what Anthea understood, this behaviour made Mr Holmes a rare and easy employer to have.

Other assistants could find themselves procuring, facilitating and enabling far less palatable endeavours. All high-level officials needed to release stress; some chose unsavoury sexual practices in which to do it. But Mr Holmes, it seemed, turned his stress inwards and not outwards.

Clara doubted this would ever change.

He was a private man, she said. He didn't trust easily - and for good reason, as he lived in a world of liars. Clara suspected his upbringing had left him with a need for safety - for comfort, and reliability - and so far, the only person he'd found able to give him those things was himself.

Love of a person was too much of a risk for Mycroft Holmes. He loved old paintings and chamber music; new cufflinks; desserts containing dark chocolate, which made Anthea smile, and watching rain. Clara had noticed that he found it peaceful. He loved warmth and quiet, and institutions, and cerebral occupations - not people.

Though Mr Holmes would never use the word, she said, Anthea was likely to find herself his closest friend.

In the fifty-second week of her probationary year, Anthea received a gift basket at her home: Dom Perignon, cognac truffles, the Elemis bath elixir she adored - pinned with a hand-written letter, offering her the role on a permanent basis... should she wish to accept it.

The letter was now her most treasured possession.

She and Mr Holmes had been a political force ever since.

 

* * *

 

Life, Anthea found, was much as Clara had said it would be.

The theatrical brother - and eventually, his funny little friend in the jumpers - caused Mr Holmes considerable trouble on a semi-regular basis. Anthea dealt with each ludicrous situation as it arose, calmly and without comment. Mr Holmes grew slowly more comfortable in relying on her to assist in the matter. She considered it the highest professional honour that he did. For Mr Holmes to be burdened with such a family tie was deplorable; it was a source of great embarrassment to him.

She made it her highest priority to ensure he knew it was no fault of his own.

She kept comments about the ridiculous brother to herself, but traded rather feline remarks with Mr Holmes about the funny friend and his jumpers - which Mr Holmes dubbed 'sartorial travesties', to her great amusement. It was not often he indulged his biting wit; she adored it when he did.

Otherwise, Mr Holmes's days revolved around his work.

Aside from the brother, there were rarely personal matters to discuss. Clara had been right in that Mr Holmes maintained very few social ties. Though his network of contacts was extraordinary, every single one of them was a means to an end - as he was to them.

They were resources; not connections.

Outside of his working hours, Mr Holmes reached for the fireside of his club, the quiet solitude of his home, and an occasional unaccompanied weekend to the highlands. People were uninteresting to him at best; they aggravated him at worst. They yielded little that he couldn't give to himself. Anthea looked after her employer with commentless diligence, safeguarded his solitude and ensured that his endeavours came to success. Life was quiet; the years passed in comfortable productivity.

And then _he_ came along - and the whole world changed.

 

* * *

 

They'd been attending the aftermath of the brother's latest childish antics when Anthea first noticed a development.

Scotland Yard had descended on the bank's headquarters in force; Mr Holmes was monitoring a number of unfolding aspects of the situation. Frankly, the brother deserved jail time for this. Anthea knew that her employer would intervene at every possible level to avert such an outcome. A lot of confidential memos would have to be shredded. It was quite the peak of the brother's career so far.

Over the course of the evening, she had stayed near to Mr Holmes but not beside him, accessible if required. She had various pieces of correspondence to be dealing with on her mobile, and Mr Holmes hardly needed her to attend his every conversation.

It was only when they'd lingered in the safe room for nearly twenty minutes that her curiosity was piqued. Mr Holmes had engaged several members of the CID team in a group conversation. Nearly all of them had now returned to their duties; only one remained.

He was a magnificent specimen, Anthea had to admit - she'd have lingered, too. Grey-haired, boyish and dark-eyed, similar to Mr Holmes in age, with a grin that one would surely never kick out of bed. The long coat and leather gloves were terribly fetching. The officer who wore them was sharing some joke with Mr Holmes, leaning in, treating him to some low and wicked remark that made Anthea's employer laugh with startled delight, drinking in the man's every word. Mr Holmes was apparently standing casually with his umbrella; he was in fact gripping the thing for dear life.

They'd been talking privately for ten minutes now.

Anthea suspected the discussion had moved far, far beyond Sherlock Holmes.

She forced her eyebrow to descend back to a neutral position, and continued attending to her e-mails.

Mr Holmes was rather reluctant to leave the bank. He hardly spoke during the drive home - not the usual heavy silence that followed his brother's nonsense, but something lighter - amused, almost. He watched the rain on the car window with a brightness to his features. He smiled to himself faintly, squeezing the handle of his umbrella now and then.

That night, Anthea found a business card in his coat for one Detective Inspector Gregory Andrew Lestrade.

She filed it with his others, intrigued, and said not a word.

 

* * *

 

Over the next six months, Mr Holmes became strangely willing to attend the scenes of his brother's various idiocies.

Inspector Lestrade seemed to have some influence over Sherlock - some stabilising effect - and he was often on hand to clean up the fall-out. He always sought out Mr Holmes on the scene; he called him 'Mycroft'. Mycroft called him 'inspector', no matter how many times Lestrade told him with a grin that it was _Greg._ They gravitated towards each other through the chaos like magnets, and would stand and chat for almost an hour if Anthea let them.

Which she did.

Delightedly - and in the certain knowledge that Mr Holmes would be in a remarkable mood for the rest of the week.

Arranging her employer's fortnightly schedule, halfway through summer, Anthea spotted an appointment she had not made. Mr Holmes must have added it to the system himself.

_Coffee with Lestrade. 11am. Cielo._

"My brother seems to require much closer supervision lately," Mr Holmes explained, when she queried it casually that afternoon. "Dr Watson's recent marriage has unsettled him... and he was unsettling enough as it is. Lestrade has suggested that he and I meet to discuss the matter."

On the day in question, they dropped Mr Holmes near Scotland Yard just before eleven. He'd opted for a light grey suit - the Prince of Wales check; the one that brought out the deeper blues in his eyes.

When they picked him up again at half past twelve, he seemed to have lost ten years from his face. He was almost glowing.

He chatted amiably in their office for most of the afternoon - anything and everything, simply happy to be speaking - and he told Anthea she'd done excellent work in the run-up to the election.

Driving home at half past seven, their quiet car journey was disturbed by the bleep of a text message. Anthea glanced up from her e-mails in surprise. Mr Holmes searched through his coat pockets for his phone, frowning.

The frown vanished as soon as he saw the sender.

He set to replying at once, working his way through the keys with distinctly brightened eyes.

Anthea watched, fascinated.

It was so rare to see him text. Mr Holmes preferred to call - it was quicker, and with a far narrower scope for misinterpretation.

He only ever texted if it were private.

He'd received two more texts by the time they reached his home. Each one set his eyes agleam with delight, and was answered without delay.

"Goodnight, sir," Anthea said as she held the door for him, her heart brimming over.

"Goodnight, Anthea..." Mr Holmes barely raised his head from his mobile phone screen, texting with all the enthusiasm of a teenager. "Do enjoy your evening..."

 

* * *

 

Eight days later, they were in the middle of discussing the Washington issue when Mr Holmes's phone buzzed noisily against the desk. He unlocked it with a casual flick, halfway through making a point, and glanced at the message that had just arrived.

The words evaporated in his throat.

From full flow he stuttered at once into silence, shocked. His entire face opened.

"Sir?" Anthea said, with concern. She wondered what the bloody brother had done this time.

Mr Holmes stared at the phone. He swallowed, his thread of thought entirely lost; he blinked in an attempt to retrieve it.

"I - ... forgive me, I've - quite misplaced where I - ..." He couldn't seem to believe his eyes. "I might just take a moment to - fresh air. Cigarette. Excuse me." He got up. "Do proceed with - ..." he said, gesturing at the drafted proposal laid out across the desk.

And with that he left the room, still staring at his phone.

Anthea immediately accessed the CCTV systems on his laptop.

She watched him smoke outside in the car park for ten minutes, tucked around a corner where he believed he couldn't be seen. He was smiling at his mobile phone, and texting with a giddiness she'd never seen. She could almost see the man trembling, even at this distance.

When he returned, he was desperately masking a smile. He hadn't quite managed it. It was there in his eyes; it shone through his expression like a powerful light.

"Might I trouble you to arrange a car?" he asked. "I'll need to travel from my home this evening. Around seven PM. A restaurant called La Phalène. I... understand it's in Soho."

_Oh!_

_Oh, God!_

Anthea kept her face as neutral as she possibly could, even as her pulse jumped and skipped. She wanted to throw her arms around him and flap. _Oh God, he asked you to dinner! And French... French is such a good sign. What will you wear? The charcoal coat - it must be - the closely-cut one. He adores you in that. Oh God._

"Of course, sir," she said, coolly. "I shall handle it immediately."

"Thank you." Mr Holmes flushed, still holding his phone. "I'm - not certain of a return time. Perhaps the car could be held on standby."

_What do you think he's going to wear? I bet he dresses up for you. Oh, God! I bet he offers to pay!_

"Yes, Mr Holmes. I'll make sure that's ready."

"Thank you." Mr Holmes sat back down at his desk - his text alert sounded yet again. He hastily smothered the smile that broke out on his face. "We should aim to finish this proposal before the meeting at four. I - will need to leave promptly at five to change..."

 

* * *

 

For most of the evening, Anthea couldn't settle. She resisted the urge to dispatch a scout to La Phalène, knowing there was a chance Mycroft might recognise whoever she sent. The last thing she wanted was for him to feel spied upon - though it was hell not knowing. It was hell not being there to help.

She occupied herself as best she could, trying not to worry as ten PM came and went without any word.

At quarter to twelve, having been unable to sleep, she finally received a text.

 

_Please dismiss the driver for the night. He shan't be needed.  
Sincere apologies for the late message. M. _

 

Anthea had never been so pleased that someone else was getting laid.

She replied at once, grinning in the darkness of her bedroom.

 

_Of course. Good night sir. A._

 


	3. Assistant II

Anthea was up and dressed the next morning by seven. She didn't know when she'd be needed. She paced her apartment for an hour, trying to figure out if her delight in all this was unhealthy. She decided she didn't care.

At ten past eight, a message arrived.

 

_Might I trouble you for a change of clothing and a car? No immediate rush. M._

 

Linked to the message was an address in Camden.

She was on her way to Mr Holmes's apartment within minutes. She picked up a suit - one that made his legs go on forever - and his overnight wash-bag, got back into the car, and with barely contained excitement made her way through to Camden.

The address was for a residential building, not a hotel.

She texted to let Mr Holmes know she was on her way, and tried to wipe the silly smile off her face.

The flat was on the tenth floor of an unassuming block near Gospel Oak. An external buzzer admitted her to the building, and she took the lift in happy silence, Mr Holmes's suit bag draped over her arm. She hummed _'On The Street Where You Live'_ to herself as the floors passed by.

At the door of Flat 10B, Anthea bit her lip, knocked and waited. After a minute, someone came to unlock it. She arranged her face into something that felt professionally courteous, listening to the quiet clatter of the lock within the door.

It finally opened with a clunk.

Lestrade appeared - bashful and grinning, wrapped in a navy dressing gown he almost certainly hadn't been wearing a minute ago. His hair was scruffed up on end.

Anthea's heart catapulted itself into orbit at once. He gave her a flushed look, one that said he was under no illusions about anything here, and said,

"Morning. C'mon in."

Inwardly squirming with joy, outwardly as calm as a swan on a mountain lake, Anthea stepped inside the flat.

It was a cosy space - rather untidy, but nothing alarming for a divorced male in his forties - the sort of property where one could speak in any room, and be heard everywhere else in the flat. Its smallness was oddly reassuring. There was the sound of hot water running in the pipes; Anthea deduced at once where Mr Holmes was, and handed Lestrade the suit-bag with a clean and professional smile.

"Thanks," he said to her, biting his lip. "And - ?"

She gave him the wash-bag, too.

"Mr Holmes's overnight things," she said. "I wasn't sure if he'd need them, but I took the liberty."

"Thanks. D'you - want some coffee? Toast? Not - really sure what the protocol is here..."

_The protocol is that you adore him forever, you wonderful man. And I shall have Manolo Blahnik's for the wedding._

"You're very kind, inspector. I'm quite fine, thank you." She found herself wanting to reassure him - to make the man understand somehow that he was special, and that he was to conduct himself as such. "If there _is_ a protocol, sir, I'm yet to discover it."

That did the trick.

His eyes lit up, and he smiled.

"Right. Thanks. Well... make yourself at home," he said, gesturing. "Mugs in the kitchen, if you change your mind. I'll just - ..." He nodded towards the bedroom door. _Just go be with him._

Anthea resisted the urge to smile. "Of course."

She waited in the kitchen, answering e-mails on her Blackberry and doing her best not to listen. She heard the sound of hot water cutting in the pipes, and a minute later the squeak of the bathroom door. There came quiet, happy murmurs and soft laughter. Her heart bubbled in her chest to hear it.

She'd never heard Mr Holmes sound like that.

The minutes passed, drifting by on the tender conversation of a couple enjoying their first morning-after together - Mycroft's dazed disbelief; Lestrade's boyish, affectionate reassurance.

Finally, Anthea caught the quizzical enquiry from her employer: "... is that my suit-bag?"

"Yep... your assistant brought it."

"My - ... has Anthea been already? When on earth was she here?"

"Arrived while you were in the shower. She's just in the kitchen."

"... she's...?!"

"Don't worry, gorgeous. I was decent. I put a dressing gown on."

"That's - hardly the - "

"C'mon, Myc... the woman chooses your toilet paper. She can cope seeing me in a dressing gown."

Anthea switched on the kettle; its soft rumble drowned out her employer's distressed response. She found mugs in the cupboard near the sink, made up a coffee for Mr Holmes the way he liked, and had it ready just as the poor man finally made his appearance in the kitchen door.

He was pale, dressed, and not at all meeting her eyes.

"Good morning," she said at once, and brought him the mug. Her heels clicked across the lino. _This is fine,_ she wanted to tell him. _This is all beyond fine. Please, please don't be afraid._ "Would you like any toast, sir?"

Mycroft took the mug from her and looked down into it, momentarily lost for words.

"Anthea," he managed at last, his voice tight. "I - ..."

_Oh, God. Please don't make me be blunt, Mr Holmes._

But her heart was beating too hard to be anything else.

She lowered her voice, desperate to save him from this feeling he needn't feel - to make this easy for him. She so wanted him to be happy.

"It's - quite alright, sir," she said. She glanced into his eyes. "It's entirely alright."

Mycroft swallowed. His voice shook as he spoke.

"This is - perhaps more than I'd expect you to - "

"Mr Holmes," she said, gently - and he faltered at once into silence. "Your... privacy matters greatly to me, sir. Your well-being. I - hope you know that you can trust in my discretion. Always. In all things."

She'd never seen him look so moved. He swallowed it back at once, his eyes shuttering, forcing the relief and the fear and the affection immediately down beneath the surface where it would all be safe.

"Thank you," he said, tightly. "That is - reassuring."

He'd want privacy to say goodbye, she thought. To part from Gregory properly - to ease the intensity of a first night into the safety of a first morning; the first of many. Anthea wanted to put her arms around him.

"I shall wait in the car, sir. I moved your appointment with the chancellor from nine-thirty to ten. I thought it would give you time for breakfast."

_Time with him._

"And Amadori has replied to our decline of his offer," she added. "The laughable moron is attempting to push. I'm just in the process of reminding him who he's dealing with - but I shall supply you with all the details later, sir."

Without making him reply, she left the kitchen.

In the lounge she found Lestrade, sitting on the couch and trying not to listen. He looked up over his cereal with a smile.

"Heading off?" he said.

Anthea noted that he'd opted for weetabix with sliced banana. She made a mental note to procure both items for her employer's cupboards at once.

"I am," she said, politely. "Though Mr Holmes's first engagement is only at ten. He has plenty of time."

_Now make it fly past, you delightful man. I expect him to be smiling for days._

"Thanks," Lestrade said, his eyes both dark and bright. He knew exactly what she was telling him, and why. Anthea had the feeling she would get on excellently with her employer's new associate. "Have a good day."

"Yes. You too, inspector."

 

* * *

 

Mr Holmes appeared by the car with just enough time to make the meeting.

"Apologies," he said, sliding in and nervously shutting the door. "I - hadn't meant to tarry quite so - "

"Hardly a problem, Mr Holmes. I believe the drive gives us just enough time to discuss Amadori - and the chancellor isn't known for his punctuality. I imagine you'll even have time for a decent coffee."

Mr Holmes's mouth quirked. He smothered it at once.

"Yes, I... have never drunk 'Nescafé Gold' before. Quite the experience."

Anthea clipped in her seatbelt as the car set off.

"Taste in coffee can be acquired, sir," she said, sleekly. "I shall order a second supply of your Dragonfly Port of Mokha."

Mycroft flushed. In the same moment, his phone bleeped with a text.

"Thank you, Anthea," he said, reaching into his pocket.

"You're quite welcome, Mr Holmes." She watched his eyes fill with stars as he read the message. "... Amadori, sir...?"

Mycroft's thumb lingered on 'Reply'.

He then smiled, closed the message, and locked his phone. He slid it away into his pocket. _Later,_ she thought. _Something to look forward to._

"Amadori," Mr Holmes said. "Proceed. You have my full attention. How regretful have you now made the blithering idiot?"

 

* * *

 

A desperately happy six months had begun.

Mr Holmes's calendar now featured the simple appointment of _'Dinner'_ at least twice a week. Sometimes, a restaurant was involved - Anthea found herself making reservations for two with delight, booking tables under 'Holmes' and requesting quieter corners of the dining area. By the second month, her employer had relaxed enough into this process for her to make recommendations to him. By the third, he left the decision in her hands.

Sometimes, what showed in the diary as _'Dinner'_ was as simple as a car sent to Scotland Yard at six PM. Inspector Lestrade would be conveyed to Mr Holmes's residence; no further action was required on Anthea's part.

In the morning, two cars would be needed - one for Mr Holmes, and one for the man whose company made him happier than Anthea had ever thought possible.

After Lestrade's first night at the house, new pharmaceuticals appeared at Mr Holmes's bedside. She could not offer - an intrusion too intimate by far - but she discreetly monitored their stock levels. Almost at the point of taking the liberty, the box magically replaced itself with a new one - a box of _thirty-six,_ no less.

It appeared this responsibility was being taken care of.

And quite clearly, it was Gregory's doing.

She doubted Mr Holmes could have brought himself to stroll into Boots on his lunch-break, and leave holding a carrier bag of such things - nor would he have had the gravity to declare himself so boldly with a box of thirty-six - _nor,_ for that matter, would he have so self-indulgently narrowed the selection down to ribbed. Anthea always knew Gregory Lestrade was a bloody gentleman. She adored the man even more now.

He was probably comfortable enough just to pick them up with bread and milk.

He was never fazed by Anthea's presence; she never left him unsettled. He greeted her without fail, and thanked her for the smallest thing, and made easy conversation at every opportunity. He was not directly affectionate towards Mr Holmes while she was in the room - though Anthea knew well for whose comfort he had established this courtesy. It was not hers, and it was not Greg's. A few accidental slips of 'gorgeous' were the most she ever witnessed, and each time felt her heart swoon into temporary incoherence as Mr Holmes flushed and glanced at his lover in desperation, and Greg grinned and apologised, biting his lip. They were so affecting it made her toes squirm inside their stockings.

Mr Holmes's work began to flourish. He was more assured, and more adaptable, and more comfortable with the unanticipated. He was eating better. He was _sleeping_ better. He hadn't had a migraine since summer.

They swapped text messages almost constantly.

Anthea had never been quite so invested in a relationship.

And it wasn't even hers.

Mr Holmes never said a word about it. He never even mentioned Gregory by name - too shy, too vulnerable, even for that. If they talked, it was in code. "Will we have a guest tonight, sir?" - "Anthea, would you be so good as to leave this weekend free of appointments? I have a prior engagement."

It was real, though.

She could see it in Mr Holmes's face, every time those deep brown eyes turned upon him.

She could see it in Gregory, too - every morning she brought a breakfast tray up to the master bedroom, and he collected it from her at the door, tousled and happy and proud. A few of his work suits appeared in Mr Holmes's wardrobe. His birthday was in January; Mr Holmes's laptop had been googling availability for villas in the Seychelles. He'd image-searched Fregate Island twelve times.

Anthea watched, her heart leaping, as a two-week section of his January diary began to empty itself quietly of face-to-face appointments.

She didn't even care if he left her behind. She'd guard the nation fiercely in his absence, and try not to spend a fortnight picturing them making love on a daybed by a private pool somewhere, Mr Holmes's arms wrapped tightly around the sun-bronzed shoulders of the man he adored. She couldn't bear it. It was just too wonderful.

Late one night, carrying files from Mr Holmes's office to the car ready for the morning, she passed the drawing room door - and caught the sound of recorded music.

Slow; soft, silky female vocals.

Alicia Keys.

Anthea glanced through the doorway, surprised.

They were standing by the full-length windows in the dark. Rain was falling against the glass, blurring the world beyond into inconsequence.

He had Mr Holmes in his arms - swaying softly with him, barely moving - one large, gentle hand cradling the back of his neck. Mr Holmes's tie and jacket were abandoned on the long mahogany table, beside the mobile playing music.

All the lights were out.

 

 _Some people want it all,_   
_But I don't want nothing at all_   
_If it ain't you, baby..._   
_If I ain't got you, baby..._   
_Some people want diamond rings,_   
_Some just want everything,_   
_But everything means nothing_ _  
_ If I ain't got you...

 

As she watched, all breath gone from her soul, Mr Holmes nuzzled into his neck - spoke some tiny, fragile softness.

Lestrade's smile glowed in every part of his face. His arms tightened.

He began to sing to Mycroft, quietly.

Anthea attended to her mascara in the downstairs cloakroom.

Two days later came the announcement - and the invitation.

The summit in Japan.

 

* * *

 

They would be out of the country for a fortnight. An enormous amount of work was required just for things to run smoothly in their absence, let alone for them to achieve their aims at the summit. Mr Holmes was forced to work much later into the night.

Anthea feared that the increased workload would unsettle things - but it didn't. Inspector Lestrade was with Mr Holmes no less often. He watched television quietly beside him as Mr Holmes worked, fetched him tea or coffee as he needed, and brooked no argument that sleep was to take place at no later than one AM. Anthea suspected strongly that, without Greg, Mr Holmes's health would have been swiftly sacrificed on the altar of stress.

As it was, all three of them made it to the week before the summit with a startling amount of sanity still intact. Everything was ready. Every eventuality had been covered. All the preparation had been done.

Mr Holmes spent the night before with Greg. Anthea was dismissed promptly at five PM. She was to arrive with the car at seven AM the next morning, and not a minute earlier. The luggage had gone on ahead.

On the morning of the flight, she found evidence of an Indian takeaway in the kitchen bin, and several burnt-out tea-lights around Mr Holmes's private bath.

Her employer was unhappy, but not with Greg. He lingered near his lover, pale, and spoke very little as final preparations were made - and for the first time that Anthea had ever seen, Greg too seemed distressed. It broke Anthea's heart as she realised the severity of the moment that had now arrived for them, and that two weeks were yawning open in front of them like a chasm. She gave them what privacy she could - but there was a plane that Mr Holmes needed to be on. The summit was a golden opportunity. It would ease their endeavours for at least the next year, if they played their cards properly.

It was the first time she'd ever seen them kiss - standing on the driveway by Mr Holmes's car. She sat in the backseat with her belt strapped in, the engine running, ready to go.

They kissed without a single flicker of joy; Greg was visibly shaking. He pushed Mycroft's hair back and murmured to him, and kissed between his eyes - then gruffly, softly, told him to get in the car and go save the bloody world.

Mr Holmes barely uttered a sound until they were on the flight.

He'd gone through the checking-in process like a ghost, not quite here. Anthea had handled it all - steering him quietly and without comment from one necessary task to the next, buying sandwiches, handling the luggage, dealing with security.

Finally, two hours after the flight departed, her employer's voice startled her from her e-mails.

"The new data protection legislation," he said. "Coming into effect next year."

Anthea looked up, baffled. It was months away. She'd barely thought about it. "Yes, sir...?"

"What stage have we reached?"

Anthea's pulse quickened - wondering why _this,_ why _now._ She looked up at his paleness, and the fragility he was fighting so hard to mask in his face, and she realised with a flash so painful that it shamed her she'd ever needed to wonder.

 _Occupy me,_ he begged in silence. _Please._

Anthea cleared her throat. She opened her laptop, thinking fast, and said,

"Well... although the legislation itself is _technically_ beyond our direct control, sir... there are a number of influential pressures that you might consider applying... for instance, if we..."

 

* * *

 

Mr Holmes had been allotted the penthouse suite in a leading Tokyo hotel. It was a mark of his considered importance as a delegate, and a very positive sign. He took the master bedroom, and assigned Anthea immediately to the almost equally opulent room beside his. Security and staff took the smaller bedrooms across the lounge.

Anthea couldn't help but look around in some pain, and note how easily a family - or a partner - could have been accommodated here.

She wondered if she should have made inquiries - arranged for Detective Inspector Lestrade to be awarded some discretionary annual leave. The poor man might have been bored out of his skull while Mycroft was busy with the summit, but at last they could have shared their nights together.

Perhaps it would have been intrusive, though. Over-familiar. Unwanted.

As it was, Mr Holmes had been texting quietly ever since they landed.

Out of sight of the other staff, he took the occasional photograph on his phone and sent it. Anthea tried not to notice him receiving picture messages in return - grey photographs of a lonely flat. It was almost ten in the morning here, and the day had just begun. In London, it was approaching one AM. Inspector Lestrade was still up, sending pictures and comfort.

Their first engagement was at eleven - at which point, Mr Holmes's phone was consigned to his briefcase.

To keep it in his jacket pocket would be considered a blatant show of disrespect - that his hosts' time was considered less important than his own, and that he was quite willing to be distracted by anything.

In the end, there was little chance of distraction. It was a gruelling day. Jet lag dogged them both through introductory meetings that would have taxed them even in ordinary circumstances. By six, Anthea was ready to drop - but an unexpected invitation to dine with the CEO of a major tech corporation was not an opportunity not to be spurned.

It was past ten when they set off back to the hotel. She'd never needed a bubble-bath and a glass of Chardonnay more in her life.

As soon as the car door closed, Mr Holmes pulled open his briefcase. He retrieved the phone from inside and unlocked it, utterly silent.

A wall of text and pictures awaited him.

As he scrolled through the bright square in the darkness, exhaling, his hand shook around the phone.

Anthea's heart strained. She tried not to watch the happy stream of affection going by - emoticons, kisses and promises - selfies and silly pictures - the puppyish grin from six-thousand miles away. She tried not to watch Mr Holmes trying to cope with it all and failing - shaking in desperation as he floundered over what to type in reply, what to say, how possibly to respond to an entire day of desperate adoration all received at once.

She wanted to help.

She'd never wanted to help the man so badly in all their years together.

_Just call him, for heaven's sake. Call him and cry. There's only me here. Call him and say "I miss you", and the rest will come..._

But Mr Holmes was a grown man. Her employer. He could barely even say the name 'Greg' to her, even though she'd been there for it all. He'd only ever kissed the man once in her presence, and then only through sheer desperation - and now she felt some need to advise him on their private text messages?

She was his assistant - she was meant to aid him to be the best that he could.

And he was a private man.

The last thing he needed in this moment was to hear the visibility of his pain. The poor man was struggling with it enough. At least she could give him the comfort of privacy in which to suffer.

Anthea engrossed herself in her e-mails, her heart beating hard, and reminded herself they would only be here for a fortnight. It would be fine.

There was surely only so much damage could be done.

 


	4. Assistant III

By the end of the first weekend, Anthea could no longer tell herself that everything was well.

The summit occupied the vast majority of their time and thoughts. Meetings were often back-to-back, and spare hours were crammed with analysis, re-evaluation and adjustments to their strategy.

On Saturday, Mr Holmes had his first migraine in five months. The fool worked through it. She knew why he'd done it, and she knew it had saved them untold complications - but by the evening, he was desperately unwell.

Anthea deployed the few remedies that she could. She insisted upon rest in a darkened room, laid a flannel soaked with cold water across his head, and ensured that he'd taken painkillers and there was tiger balm close at hand for his temples. She'd introduced him to it around the time that Trump won the bloody election. Both of them had ended up going through the stuff by the vat. They'd spent weeks despairing together in a cloud of camphor and menthol, to the point that even now, she couldn't see the man's smug little photographed face without fancying she caught a whiff of cloves.

But for Mycroft, that was then -  _B.G.,_ she thought -  _Before Greg_ \- and she hadn't heard him ask for the jar in months. She almost hadn't packed it.

"I am entirely fine," he muttered to her, exhausted, as he laid upon his bed in the darkness. "You're - considerate to - but you should attend to your own needs. I am quite well."

 _Hush,_ she thought, rearranging his flannel.  _Hush, for heaven's sake, and permit yourself to need me._ She wanted to comfort him like a mother - a man over a decade her senior. Had the aptitude tests predicted she would end up like this? Have they predicted he would need it? Dear God, she hoped so.  _You are not in any way 'quite well', Mr Holmes. It is desperately clear._

She didn't dare say it. It was too far; he didn't like to be vulnerable. He was her employer, and it wasn't her place.

"Have you spoken to Inspector Lestrade?" she asked, praying that the title forged enough of a safety barrier for him to cope. He needed comfort, and Gregory was comfort manifest in human form. Tiger balm would be nothing compared to his lover's voice.

Mr Holmes did not speak or move for some time. He simply breathed, his eyes still closed. At last, she watched his throat muscles work around the words.

"I've - been unable to find very many opportunities to - ..." They stuck, and were lost. New ones arose. "You and I are greatly occupied. As we should be."

Anthea waited, hardly breathing. Mr Holmes's eyes remained shut.

"And the time zones are problematic," he said. "The overlap of working hours and sleep - I - ..." He hesitated; she watched his fingers curl into his palms. "I - cannot blame him."

Anthea's heart contracted in despair.

"For...?" she prompted, as gently as she could.

Mr Holmes swallowed.

Heart breaking, she watched him close up. The brief flash of grief drained from his face, taking all else with it, and the effect was instant. The pain had gone to ground, she thought. It had gone deep. She wouldn't retrieve it now - no-one would - not until it was ready to emerge.

"It is natural that he should have other priorities," Mr Holmes murmured, his voice now void of emotion. Exhaustion greyed his cheeks. The matter was over. "This discussion goes beyond your duties to me, Anthea. Thank you for your assistance."

He shifted, turning away.

"Kindly leave me to sleep."

 

* * *

 

It was Wednesday before Anthea could finally get hold of his phone.

Mr Holmes would flay her living if he found out.

But something had changed, and it was crippling him - and she couldn't bear to see his heart shatter in silence one more time.

They were moving into the second week now. Meetings were growing more relaxed, as political ties were forged and judged to be secure. More casual behaviour - checking phones, sharing food and loosening ties - was now viewed as a sign of trust and familiarity, and Anthea had been longing for these days.

It meant that Mr Holmes could speak to Greg more often - he would feel at his best again. Those overwhelming walls of affection she had glimpsed in the first days could now be broken into the familiar back-and-forth at which Mycroft excelled - little comments, little messages, traded at speed. He would no longer be drowned and paralysed by an outpouring of love that he felt he couldn't possibly ever match.

And yet the relief didn't seem to have come.

Anthea had watched for it - hoped for it, day-by-day, as the summit passed.

But there was no sign.

It appeared that Greg had stopped texting Mr Holmes.

He checked for it, often - a hundred times a day - a lift of his phone, a glance at the lockscreen, and he would find work e-mails and notifications and reports aplenty - but never the name he wanted. It was killing him, quietly, glimpse-by-glimpse.

Anthea didn't know what had changed.

But she knew it was hurting him greatly. Although it was yet to affect his work, it was affecting his health. He was barely eating. He didn't think that she'd noticed, but she had. His sleep hours had shortened dramatically.

He didn't seem to want to be alone in his room.

There were awful possibilities that she needed to discount.

On Wednesday, the morning was given to an official trip to a sauna. Mr Holmes had clearly been dreading it with almost the entirety of his being, but shut down any attempt whatsoever to discuss the appointment. Anthea suspected he was seeing it as a political necessity, to be endured for the good of the nation.

All the same, the man needed comfort today more than ever.

The opportunity to examine his phone would not come again. For the sake of his well-being, Anthea took it.

Her employer's clothes and property had been left in secure storage while he was with the other delegates in the steam baths. Giving an excuse to the staff, she got into his coat and swiftly unlocked the phone. If caught, she would explain that an emergency call from Whitehall had necessitated access to Mr Holmes's e-mails.

In truth, the matter was of far greater importance than that.

She immediately opened Mr Holmes's texts.

Breath held, Anthea scrolled.

_how are you? Hope all going well. G x_

_Good day? G x_

_Good luck for meeting later. hope it goes smoothly. Sorry to pester. know you're busy. G x_

Anthea's heart broke into pieces.

 _Short,_ she thought.  _Functional. Infrequent._ Muted small talk had replaced the emoticons and silly selfies that had come in tidal waves of affection before.

Mr Holmes often simply didn't respond.

If he did, he replied in kind.  _I'm well thank you. We are still very busy here but progress is being made. I hope your week has been enjoyable. xx_

She couldn't bear it.

She checked Mycroft's call log, and found that the times had dramatically shortened since the first few days. Their first night in Japan, he'd spent nearly two hours on the phone to Greg. Lying in the dark, she thought, as her throat tightened. Exhausted, jet-lagged, lonely. Whispering to the man he loved.

They hadn't spoken to each other on the phone since Monday night.

Had Inspector Lestrade really forgotten Mr Holmes so quickly?

Anthea returned to the texts. As her heart thumped, she analysed with care - logging times and frequencies, patching them to what she knew of Mycroft's schedule, trying to identify patterns of response and reaching out.

They both initiated contact at roughly the same rate. It was a greatly reassuring sign. Responses to Mr Holmes's attempts came swiftly from Gregory - most of them within two minutes. One response sent after a delay of only eight minutes came with an apology, explaining that Greg had been on the phone to the superintendent.

Hope beat desperately in Anthea's veins as she reached her conclusion.

Clearly, Greg was eager enough to hear from Mr Holmes. He was fast to respond, regardless of time of day. He even responded at times when he should very much be asleep.

But the content of their messages was so distressing she could hardly read them.

Each nervous conversation drifted miserably into nowhere. _How are you? I am fine._ Long, long silences in between, full of everything, all of it unsaid.

_Listen... sorry I keep bombarding you with stuff. just bored at work lol. I know you're busy. hope I'm not driving you mental G x_

_I hadn't realised you were bombarding me? You're not 'driving me mental'. xx_

_okay... good to know. Good luck with meetings later G x_

Then nothing.

"Fools," Anthea whispered around the lump in her throat. "You bloody  _fools."_

But what was to be done?

She could hardly reveal to her employer that she'd now analysed his text conversations with his lover in detail, and had a number of suggestions to make - the first one being, _talk to the bloody man, for the love of God, and inform him that you miss him with every iota of your soul._

But God almighty, this was unendurable.

They were going to the Seychelles in January, Anthea thought.

They were going if she had to have them both kidnapped there.

In fact she would go, too - Mr Holmes could work remotely if he must, and she would assist him - sunning herself discreetly on a sun-lounger somewhere with her laptop, and a cocktail in a coconut, while Mr Holmes and Inspector Lestrade occupied themselves however they liked. They would be together, and they would be happy. She would ensure it.

She sighed, returned Mr Holmes's phone to his coat, and wondered which controlling power of the universe had ever seen fit to imbue men with feelings.

The poor creatures clearly couldn't be trusted with them.

 

* * *

 

On Thursday afternoon, Mr Holmes started with another migraine. Anthea was sure this one came as a direct result of lack of Greg Lestrade. Her employer had now changed from checking his phone a thousand times a day to refusing to check it at all, and the moment that other delegates were no longer around, the man dropped his political mask like a heavy weight and appeared on the verge of collapse.

At half past five, for the first time, Mr Holmes left an important meeting to smoke. He came back ten minutes later, looking more stressed than ever.

As he sat back down beside her, Anthea subtly angled her ruled pad towards him.

_Might I ask when you last ate?_

Pretending to follow the current discussion in contemplative silence, Mycroft jotted his reply casually upon his own notes. It was phonetic English, transcribed backwards into Cyrillic for security.

_I am not here to sample the cuisine. We are here to work._

Anthea responded in faultless Cyrillic, biting her tongue.

_Quite certain both are possible sir. I suggest you skip tonight's social in order to respond to an urgent but unspecified piece of business in England._

Mr Holmes's eyes shuttered as he read it. As he picked up his pen to respond, his mouth slanting into a hard and unimpressed line, she quickly added -

_You are distressed and it is now noticeable._

Mycroft paused, retaining the pen between his fingers.

She underlined _'distressed'_ twice.

It was some time before he responded - inking the words quietly, with small movements where only Anthea could see them.

_I will make my apologies after this meeting._

As she deciphered the Cyrillic, her heart clenched with relief. They could be back in the suite by seven, and Mr Holmes could have a meal by himself and a much-needed evening alone. The man was so introverted he was almost inside-out; this kind of lengthy trip, mixing business with social events, drained the very life from him - even without the added emotional toll of his absent Greg.

 _Thank you,_ she wrote.

Mycroft spent the rest of the meeting quietly massaging his temples, and checking his phone beneath the table.

 

* * *

 

Back in the suite, Anthea dismissed all but vital security for the night and took charge of room service.

She ordered a selection of lighter foods, none of which would aggravate Mr Holmes's migraine any further - sandwiches, pasta, fresh salad and salmon - and laid them out in the lounge for him to graze on as he worked. She knew better than to take the laptop off him. It was a miracle he'd agreed to skip the social; any further demands, and she would place herself on very thin ice. She suspected the distraction of work would ease his state of agitation, too.

Mr Holmes picked at the food until nine, coating his temples every half an hour with tiger balm, and growing more and more pale as the evening progressed.

He'd left his phone to charge by an electric outlet.

As he wearily got to his feet, and crossed the lounge towards it, he said,

"I'm - going to retire for the night, Anthea... I suspect my day's allowance of productivity has run its course."

Anthea looked up from her laptop, watching him with gentle concern.

"Would you care for camomile tea, sir?" she said.

"No," he murmured, distracted. "No, thank you..."

His fingers hesitated as they reached for his phone.

Anthea watched, discreetly, as he picked it up. He turned it over, affecting for all the world an expression that suggested this would not matter either way - that the sight he anticipated would not impact him at all, if it came to pass.

He quietly pressed the home button.

The lockscreen illuminated; the time appeared, brightly emblazoned over John Atkinson Grimshaw's  _Blackman Street, London._ It was his favourite.

No messages disturbed the painted scene.

Mycroft's gaze flickered. He swallowed the disappointment, doing his very best to appear unmoved. He locked the phone again, replaced it where it was, and moved without a word into his bedroom.

He shut the door with a snap.

Anthea put her laptop aside, and brushed both hands across her face.

 _This cannot continue,_  she thought.

It was Thursday. Their flight home was only scheduled for next Tuesday.

If the ridiculous man didn't text Mr Holmes soon, the pain would close him up entirely - and Mycroft would reach the conclusion that even his loyal, patient Gregory had not been worth the risk of love.

After that point, things became irretrievable.

An injured Mycroft Holmes did not allow himself to be struck twice by the same person. Anthea knew it well. She had seen it enough times in his professional life. She couldn't bear to see it in his personal life, too. After Greg's quiet affection, there could be no-one else to compare.

Bu what was there to do?

At quarter to eleven, she was surprised to hear the bedroom door open. She looked up to find Mr Holmes emerging in his nightwear and a dressing gown, eyes averted, his hair in a state of pillow-scruffed disarray.

His pale face brought his reddened eyes into painful relief.

"A touch of insomnia," he murmured before she could speak, his voice somewhat hoarse. "Pay no attention. I will make myself tea."

Anthea's heart shattered.

He'd been weeping.

Actually weeping - distressed enough to cry.

How many people in the world had possibly ever pushed him to this? Less than a hand's count. Excepting those to whom he was genetically related, and whose wounds he had no choice but to suffer, the number must incline itself close to zero.

He'd cried, she thought, and he'd tried to sleep and failed. He'd calmed himself enough to come out here with some semblance of dignity, to make himself tea and try to find some peace in that. She wished it was raining - the rain always soothed him. She wished she could make him understand.

"Mr Holmes?" she said; she heard her own voice thicken.

Mr Holmes said nothing. He moved to the kettle without a sound and switched it on, his head bowed.

Anthea put aside her laptop.

"Sir..." she said.

He did not respond. His hand shook slightly as he turned over a mug, then selected a tea-bag. He tore it open without a word.

_God almighty. Enough of this._

_"Mycroft!"_ she burst out.

Mr Holmes stiffened at once; his shoulders set.

"I do not recall inviting you to my first name," he intoned. It was a warning.

Anthea ignored it.

"Mr Holmes," she said, her heart beating hard. "I believe there's been an error of communication."

"Indeed there has," he said, and shot her the sharpest flash of his eyes he’d ever given her. It was a second warning. "Let us correct this oversight immediately."

 _For heaven's sake._ Anthea made her decision.

"Yes," she said, got up from the sofa, crossed to his phone and jerked it from the power cord. "Let's."

Mr Holmes's flush of fear hardened into immediate anger. "Put that down at once."

Anthea put it down - into his hand.

"Call Inspector Lestrade," she said.  _"Now._ For your own sake."

"And tell him  _what?"_ Mycroft demanded, regarding her with widened eyes. "That I am looking to recruit a new assistant, if he knows of anyone suitable?"

Anthea held his stare, unmoved.

"If that is the case, sir," she said, "then I can speak freely. Thank _goodness._ The man misses you - it is  _spectacularly_ obvious - and your guardedness has given him the impression he is a menace to you. The pair of you are wounding each other for no good reason, and I cannot watch another minute of it."

 _"Pack,"_ Mycroft spat. His eyes flared.  _"Now._ And then book yourself on the next flight to Heathrow."

Anthea cocked her chin.

"With pleasure!" she retorted. "Though I shall be dragging _you_ with me, Mr Holmes, delivering you to Greg at once, and knocking both your heads together with all my might."

The last of the colour fled from Mycroft's face. "How  _dare you - "_

"Because I am  _your_   _assistant!"_  she shouted, shocking him into a silence that made him look at once half his age. "Because I was selected from a candidacy of thousands to be of the  _greatest_   _possible_   _help_  to you, Mr Holmes! And in this moment, nothing will help you more than  _the sound of that man's voice!"_

Mycroft stared at her, white-pale and overwhelmed. He made no sound whatsoever.

Anthea's chest heaved.

"My entire purpose," she said, "is to facilitate your endeavours. To ensure your success. If you won't listen to me on this matter, then my duties become impossible."

Mycroft Holmes stared into her eyes with an expression he'd never given anyone in his life.

His throat muscles clenched around the words.

"You," he said at last, in a voice thick with pain, "are labouring under a delusion. Allow me to _clarify_  the situation for you."

His face sharpened.

"Inspector Lestrade is like  _all other people,"_  he bit out. "They are fascinated by what is  _accessible._ They forget things that are  _gone._ They tire of each other at lightspeed and they are  _unreliable._ They are -  _difficult._ And you are being  _overly familiar."_

Anthea covered her eyes. She couldn't bear it. "For heaven's sake..."

_"Do not address me in that fashion."_

"I fear I must, sir. Otherwise I would never break through your thick skull."

"Do yousincerely wish me to terminate your employment?" he shouted.

"I sincerely wish you to call Lestrade!" she shouted back in despair. "Mr Holmes, the man is in love with you! You are  _everything_  to him! He's taken your lack of contact as waning interest, and the two of you have slumped into a spiral. One of you must break it or you will lose each other. And I can't endure that, Mr Holmes!"

"Whatpossible evidence do you posit," Mycroft spat, "that the man has spared me so much as a single thought since - "

His words were interrupted - by a familiar text alert tone.

Mycroft froze.

Anthea's heart leapt into her throat.

She watched as every scrap of anger vanished from his face. It was like seeing the spring thaw happen in seconds. They stared at each other, pale, and in the wake of Mycroft’s anger, fear rushed across his eyes.

The silence stretched on.

"Read it," she told him, at last.

His expression cracked. "I can't."

"Why?"

Anxiety flooded his features. "He - ..." The gloss to his eyes came suddenly, hotly, and Anthea's heart strained at the very sight. In a voice that shook he gasped, "He's pulling away from me. I know it. I - I can't _bear_  it. You don't understand. I... I've never... n-never in my  _life - ..."_

Anthea wanted to fold him into her arms and cry his tears for him.

"Let me read it," she whispered. "Give it to me. I'll do it for you."

Without hesitation Mycroft placed the phone into her hand. He gazed at her in terror as she unlocked it, her fingers stiff, and opened up the message.

"What does it say?" he managed. His voice broke. "Please."

Anthea processed the words as she read them. She took a breath.

"He wishes to know if you're busy," she said. "He wishes to talk to you, if you're available."

Mycroft's expression folded.

"No," he whispered, in horror. "No -  _no_  - I can't. He's going to end the relationship."

"Mr Holmes, he hasn't given any indication that he wishes to - "

"Tell him I'm busy. For God's sake. Respond to him - tell him I can't talk."

Anthea despaired. "What in heaven's name will that achieve?" she asked, gazing at him with all the gentleness she could muster. "Except more days of reasonless misery?"

"It isn't  _reasonless,"_ he bit out, his shoulders heaving. He looked like he wanted to sob. "You can't -  _begin_ to imagine what - what he - what  _difference_ h-he has made to my - "

Anthea's heart was on the point of rupture.

She braced herself.

"Then tell him," she said. "Tell him what he is to you. Or the poor man will never know."

As she spoke, she hit call.

Mycroft's phone began to ring Inspector Lestrade.

She pushed it into his hands. He resisted, panicking.

"For God's sake!" he gasped. "No! No, I don't wish to - "

"He's going to answer any second," she warned. "I suggest you prepare yourself to speak."

"Oh - oh, dear God  _-_ how can you  _possibly_ do this to - " The call connected. Mycroft scrabbled the phone wildly to his ear, driving his other hand up into his hair. "Greg?"

Anthea watched, her heart pounding, as he paced into the bedroom. He gripped at his own hair, listening, pale as a ghost. The cord of his dressing gown trailed like a fuzzy grey tail behind him.

"No, I - I'm not busy." Mycroft reached for the door handle, shaking. "W-What did you wish to discuss...?"

He closed the door.

Anthea calmed herself by making two cups of camomile tea.

She arranged them neatly on the coffee table, opened a new window on her laptop, and googled flights leaving in the next few hours for Heathrow.

She had a single ticket reserved and ready for payment by the time that Mr Holmes reappeared.

She looked up calmly from the couch, sipping her tea, with the laptop open at her side.

Mr Holmes hovered in the doorway. He said nothing, white in the face.

"I’ve made tea," she said, gently.

He took the hint, and came nearer. He looked as if one more stab of emotion would finish him off.

As he sat down upon the couch, trembling, Anthea enquired,

"How is Inspector Lestrade?"

Mr Holmes was silent for some time. He reached out to the laptop, cancelled the seat reservation with one click, and said,

"He - misses me. Somewhat intensely."

Anthea sipped her tea. "Did you make it clear that the situation is mutual?"

"I-I did."

"Did you mention that your assistant had to resort to breathtaking levels of insubordination to instill some sense in you?"

Mycroft flushed. "In - similar words, yes."

"Was the poor fool under the impression he'd been aggravating you?"

"Yes." Mycroft swallowed, meekly accepting the cup of tea she handed him. "He - f-feared he was a menace. Distracting me. U-Unimportant to me."

"And have you now corrected that ridiculous falsehood in no uncertain terms?"

His blush deepened. "Yes."

"Did you tell the blessed idiot that you love him?"

Mycroft made a small sound. "Y-Yes." He lifted the cup, shaking, to his mouth. "He - reciprocates. Fervently."

Anthea sipped her tea.

"Is my employment now terminated?" she asked.

Mycroft swallowed around the word. "No."

He looked down into his cup of tea, and the peaceful pale gold liquid within, wrestling with something for a moment.

"Greg's - sergeant insisted that he contact me," he said. "He's been troubled at work this week. Distracted. She was... rather concerned for his welfare."

"She sounds like a wholly sensible woman," Anthea remarked, her gaze trained on the rim of her tea cup.

Mycroft breathed in.

"She is," he said. His fingers tightened around the handle of the cup. "Wholly sensible."

There was a long, not uncomfortable, pause.

"When are we returning to England?" Anthea asked, as she reached for the teapot.

Mycroft gazed at her, his expression unreadable.

"Our aims here were... rather open-ended," he said. He hesitated. "And we have forged ties that can now be - ..."

"Of course, sir." Anthea poured herself a little more tea. "I merely note it would be convenient, if you were now recalled to England on urgent business."

Mycroft's eyes flickered with guilt.

"There _is_ no urgent business," he said. "Such things are verifiable. It will be an obvious deception."

Anthea lifted her tea, regarding him pleasantly over the rim. "I'm quite sure we could create some, sir."

Mycroft's tea-cup rattled quietly against its saucer.

"I should not be condoning these notions," he muttered, flushing. "I should be attempting to instill dedication in you. Professionalism. Commitment to the interests of the nation."

Anthea hummed. She took another sip of her tea.

"Recall that I am not the nation's assistant, Mr Holmes. I am yours."

 

* * *

 

They found them in the city's market the next day, while touring with the other delegates. Anthea pointed them out - trinket boxes, ornately lacquered with sublime little silver deer.

Sergeant Sally Donovan was clearly a woman of excellent judgement.

She deserved a daily reminder of the value that she held, to the man who so sorely needed her.

Mycroft bought and paid for two without hesitation.

 

* * *

 

The flights were arranged; official apologies were issued. The luggage was sent on ahead. Their flight would leave Japan at six in the evening, take eleven hours, and arrive in the UK not long after nine o'clock GMT. Anthea ensured Mr Holmes's freezer back home was stocked with dark chocolate ice cream, and there were fresh raspberries for him in the fridge.

Just before they boarded the plane, Mr Holmes took a moment to make a phone-call - a phone-call which he made in private, but returned from with barely concealed joy that caused his assistant's heart to roll within her chest like a happy seal.

"Will we have a guest this evening, sir?" she enquired, as she ascended the steps of the aircraft just behind him.

She could hear the faint smile in his voice.

"Yes," he said. "Greg will be staying with me. Until Tuesday."

Anthea squeezed the strap of her handbag. "And what time would you like breakfast in the morning?"

"Ah... perhaps more of a brunch, if you would..." Mycroft stood aside to let her enter the plane first, holding back the curtain. His coat stirred in the evening breeze. "I - imagine we might sleep late."

Anthea paused in the doorway, and regarded him with fondness.

"I shall ensure the two of you are undisturbed, sir," she said. "As ever."

The tiniest of smiles played across his mouth.

"Thank you, Anthea," he murmured. "For - your assistance."

"Not at all, Mr Holmes." Her eyes flashed. "I do believe it's my job..."

 

**The End**

 


End file.
